Gastronomy of a Bird
by paganpunk2
Summary: Perfect meals - a combination of setting, surrounding events, and menu - stand out as important moments in one's life. These are three of Dick's. T for language.
1. Far Away and Alone

**Author's Note: This will be a three-shot series based on the quote "gastronomical perfection can be reached in these combinations: one person dining alone, usually upon a couch or a hillside; two people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good restaurant; six people, of no matter what sex or age, dining in a good home"** **by M.F.K. Fisher. Happy reading!**

* * *

It was spring on the periphery of the world, and Dick Grayson was sick and tired of eating nothing but dried meat and preserved vegetables.

He'd been holed up in this hilly, rural region for two months now, looking after someone else's sheep by day and spying on the head honcho an international terrorist group by night. The story that had been given out to explain his presence was that the flock's owner needed a surgical procedure in the city, and had asked a young nephew to care for his homestead in his absence. That man, who had been a JLA informant ever since Superman had saved his only daughter's life two decades earlier, _had_ in fact been whisked away to the capital, where he had undergone a hernia operation paid for quite magnanimously by the international arm of the Wayne Foundation. Dick, posing as a bumpkin farmer from an even more isolated valley than this one, had stayed in his place and gathered more intelligence in eight weeks than the well-meaning but untrained herder had managed in the last eight years.

Returning to the old shepherd's neat little hut just before sunset, he locked up the sheep for the evening and ducked inside to see about dinner. The animals seemed happy with their grazing now that tender green shoots were coming up in abundance, but until the fruit trees began to produce Dick knew that he would have no fresh food. Sighing and wrinkling his nose at the pickled carrots he'd been eating for a week straight, he closed the curtain between the main room and the lean-to pantry. "I wonder if he'd notice if he came home to one less ewe," he joked aloud in the native tongue.

"A good herdsman would count his sheep first thing," an unexpected answer came from just outside. "Especially if he only had twenty-six of them to start with."

Recognizing Superman's voice, Dick grinned and fairly skipped to the entrance. "...You look like someone who'd know, too," he ribbed, taking in the Kryptonian's dirt-spattered local clothing before throwing himself forward into a tight embrace.

"So do you," Clark replied once they'd parted, his face amused as he reached out to ruffle the younger man's uncharacteristically short hair. "Your father'd barely recognize you if he saw you right now."

"Yeah..." He scrubbed at the quarter-inch of stubble he'd let grow in along his jaw and cheeks. "Customs are different here than at home. Long hair would probably get me beaten or shot. But I'm being rude. Come on inside."

They moved indoors, the visitor shrugging a pack from his shoulders as soon as they were seated. "I'm under strict orders from A. to make sure that this gets to you," he smiled. "He couldn't stand the thought of your birthday going by without you having something from home."

"My birthday? Oh, shit..." He blushed, embarrassed. "It's tomorrow, isn't it?"

"It is," Clark gave a kind laugh. "You didn't really forget, did you?"

"What's sad is that I _did_. I totally know what the date is, but...well, you get into a daily routine, you know, and when there's nothing on the horizon to break it up I guess you tend to just blank on things like your own birthday."

"You've been out here alone for a while now. It's excusable."

"Heh." Picking up on the unasked question in the Kryptonian's words, Dick shrugged. "It's not so bad. I wish I ran into more people, but...I've got the sheep to talk to. Don't worry, they don't talk back."

"Good."

"So...how is everyone?" His mission was so covert that even his super-encrypted communications with the Watchtower were almost entirely one-sided, and as result he'd hardly spoken to anyone he could trust since his arrival. His thirst for news of home was overwhelming now that he found himself with a few minutes to spare in the presence of a virtual family member, and he just couldn't resist asking.

"They're all fine, aside from missing you. They'd never _say_ as much, of course, but...it's obvious. Your father in particular wished that he could come in my place, especially given what tomorrow is, but that wasn't feasible."

"No," Dick sighed, "I know it wasn't. It's okay, he's busy with...the farm...and it's too much work for one man to do alone. He needs the others there to help keep things going smoothly. Still...summer's such a busy time. Have you heard when Uncle might be allowed to return? I'd like to be home to help with the first crop of the season." Gotham was always a veritable amusement park between April and October, with the hot weather upping tempers and boosting crime. It would be a shame to miss such fun, he thought, and Batman could always use the extra hands.

"In another three weeks or so, barring any new developments. You can manage another three weeks, can't you?"

Three weeks felt like forever now that thoughts of Bruce, Alfred, and his little brothers had been stirred up. There was still work to be done here, though, and trying to insert someone new to fill the gap could very well blow their cover. He couldn't put the entire mission and possibly people's lives at risk just because he was homesick. "Of course. Uncle has an easily manageable flock, it's no problem. I was just curious."

"Of course."

There were a hundred other things that Dick ached to ask – was the information he'd been painstakingly collecting of any use? How close were they to moving in on his quarry? Were Damian and Tim fighting much without him there to step between them, or had they gone back to ignoring each other? – but he didn't dare. He could be certain that there were no monitoring devices inside the hut because he had set up a dozen almost invisible tells as soon as he'd gotten here, none of which had been disturbed, but it would only take an ear lingering against the back wall to ruin everything. For all that he had kept a very low profile and had a solid excuse for being where he was, the danger of getting caught by his extremely nasty target was still very real.

Clark seemed to sense that extending his visit would only make it more difficult for the younger man to keep from making unsafe inquiries. He rose to his feet, smiling when Dick joined him. "The sheep look wonderful. Your Uncle will be pleased." Then he tugged him into another tight hug. "Correction," he breathed in such a way that no one could possibly overhear. "He _is_ very pleased. Three more weeks, pal, and we'll have this sleazeball. I'm sure of it."

"Thanks, Uncle Clark. I really needed to hear that," Dick whispered back.

"I know." The Kryptonian stepped away. "I want to get started back towards home before it's completely dark," he said. "...Take care of yourself until I see you again."

"I will. You're sure you can't stay, though?" After so long without interpersonal contact, he didn't have to fake the urging in the question.

"No, I need to get on my way. Shepherds have early mornings, and I don't want to interfere with your schedule," he winked.

"Well...thank you for coming to see me, and for the gift from home."

"It was nothing." Clark hesitated in the doorway a moment. "...Good night."

"Good night." Moving to the entrance once it had been vacated, he watched his visitor walk away until he vanished over a low swell. He sighed when he was alone again, then turned back to the interior of the hut and eyed the package he'd been brought. Alfred had yet to send him bad gifts when he was away from home, and as he reflected on the many goodies he'd received in the past his mouth began to water. _God, I hope he sent food this time...anything but carrots, please..._

Acting on that hope, his hands tore into the pack hungrily. Everything they pulled out had been carefully chosen to be in keeping with the role he was playing; rough knit socks, a bar of country soap, and simple fare that could have come out of any local kitchen. Bread, lamb, and dried fruit all gave off their own aromas, filling the little living space with a delicious melange. In a side pocket he found two carefully wrapped triangles of baklava, sprinkled with pistachio nuts in the regional fashion. _Oh, Alfred,_ his eyes pricked. _You thought of everything._

He knew the butler's intention had been to ensure that he had a good meal on his birthday, but the idea of waiting until the following day to have his little feast was insupportable. Furthermore, he decided, such a spread shouldn't be enjoyed indoors, especially since the day had promised to turn into a clear, balmy evening. Nodding to himself, he bundled the food back into the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and struck out along the crest of the hill.

A half mile later he stopped beside a small creek. The land rolled away in front of him, covered mostly in scrub grass but with a few fields visible at the hazy edge of the twilight. Behind him rose the mountains, their snow-capped peaks pushing a gentle, cooling breeze into the valleys below. Overhead the stars had already begun to unfurl, and he knew that before he was done eating a nearly-full moon would be on its way up. Humming happily, he sat down.

For the next hour, he knew little other than bliss. Thoughts of home tried to intrude on his peace at first, but he pushed them away. When Clark had initially reported that he could expect to spend another three weeks here, he had nearly balked. Now, watching the country settle into night as a meal perfectly suited to his surroundings slipped over his tongue, he realized that a part of him would be sad to leave. Sometime during the last two months he had come to appreciate this land, and as he ate he found himself feeling truly joined to it for the first time. He only wished that his mission had allowed him to come into greater contact with the people who took their livings from this place in honest fashions. He had mused on them from a distance, but there was no better way to learn about a culture than to sit down amongst its members and listen to their talk.

His position had denied him that opportunity on this trip, but maybe next time, he thought vaguely as he lay back on the earth and cushioned his head on his hands, there would be some task to be undertaken in a town. He would wait and see; action in this part of the world was unlikely to cease in the near future, and despite his longing to see those he'd left at home he now realized that he would volunteer to come back at the drop of a hat. It might be a little while before they dared to reuse him, he grimaced, then shook his head. _There's no point in worrying that far into the future right now,_ he lectured silently. _Just enjoy the moment, you dork. _

Laughing at himself, he licked his lips. The last of the grease and honey mingled on his palate, and as he lay on the hillside with his stomach full and a meaningful task both behind and ahead of him, he was content.


	2. Unstoppable Force, Immovable Object

**Author's Note: So this chapter turned out much longer than I had anticipated, hence the delay in posting. For those of you who have been wondering, all three chapters take place in the same universe, and in chronological order. I will have a new post related to this story up on my blog inside of 24 hours, for those who are interested. I may be able to update 'Turkey Song' before the end of the weekend; I'm certainly going to try. After that you'll get the next chapter of the three-parter I started in 'Summer Shorts,' then more 'Turkey Song.' Happy reading!**

* * *

Dick had made every effort to be discreet, but as he slipped in the door of the restaurant Bruce had named he feared that the three paparazzi who had followed him from the valet stand were giving him away. Sure enough, the hostess sent him a nervous smile and stuttered when she greeted him. "Hello, M-mr. Grayson."

"Hi," he nodded back, smiling even as he gave a mental eye roll. _'Mr. Grayson.' Jesus, I did __not__ miss that, nor the photographers._ Glancing behind him, he could see flash bulbs still going off on the other side of the tinted front windows. _Those guys are almost as stubborn as the fricking terrorists. Ugh._ "Is he here yet, or...?" It wasn't necessary for him to clarify who he was meeting; anyone who could recognize him on sight would already be well aware of who he was set to meet. It wasn't often that Bruce Wayne was seen dining out without a beautiful woman on his arm, and speculation was hot as to what this very private dinner between the billionaire and his eldest might signify.

Dick, and Dick alone, knew the answer to that. He had requested this meeting for two reasons: first, to make it clear to Bruce that he was going to go back undercover on the other side of the world as soon as he had the opportunity; and second, to assuage any extreme feelings that the older man had about that fact. The challenge would be performing both of those feats somewhere that they couldn't speak freely about their alter egos. The trade off, though – having Bruce stuck in a small room where he could be forced to listen and would need an iron clad excuse were he to storm off – was worth the extra difficulty.

Approving glances were sent his way by the other patrons as he was led towards the back of the building, and he had to appreciate once more the story that had been given out to explain his three-month absence. Alfred's expert fabrication of photos and documents had allowed Bruce to claim that his son had been on a globetrotting expedition to meet the far-flung doctors working for the Wayne Foundation's overseas medical subsidiaries. He had ostensibly been delivering the latest prosthetics and other equipment for use in some of the poorest, most war-torn areas of the world, where they were destined to aid wounded locals at no cost. The supplies had, in truth, gone out without him during his JLA terrorist hunt, but no one could tell as much from the 'official' reports and pictures of his visits.

That tale and the viral popularity it had attained made it possible for him to bring up another 'dangerous mission' in public without raising any eyebrows. It had been impossible to spin a likely recounting of Dick's travels without adding in some travails along the way, and the billionaire had made it very clear that those weren't the sort of risks he wanted the young man that reporters had dubbed his 'heir apparent' taking again. What he _did_ want, he hinted every time he was interviewed, was for Dick to remain in Gotham and begin making a name for himself within Wayne Enterprises. The trip had been a good thing for him to participate in, to be sure, but now that it was over he joked that he was working to bribe his boy to stick close to home.

Dick was certain that Bruce's likely upset after tonight would be spun by the media as an extension of those sentiments. If everything went right, it would look like nothing more than a continuation of the executive versus laborer argument that the papers had first covered when he'd turned away from his guardian's philanthropy in order to become a cop. With all of those factors working in his favor, he should have been confident about his success; unfortunately, though, he knew Bruce had meant every word he'd said in public of late, and that complicated things.

'Bribery' was too gentle a word for what he'd been dealing with since coming home. It had started with the birthday party. He'd expected there to be some sort of small family celebration upon his return from his mission; he had _not_ anticipated three dozen people and the keys to a two million dollar Aston Martin. The car he'd driven to town in tonight – knowing it was an allurement from a man who had trouble expressing himself when dollar signs weren't involved couldn't reduce his love for it – had been only the first salvo of his surrogate father's attack. He'd been home all of two days when mention had been made of an executive position at WE, complete with a corner office on the same floor as the CEO's, had occurred. A week after that Bruce had talked him into taking a leisurely afternoon drive that had somehow ended with them discussing superbikes beside an excited salesperson at a Ducati dealership. He'd gone down to the cave a few evenings later to find that his old, much-patched costume had been replaced and upgraded. A trip to check in at the Watchtower that night had disclosed luxury bedding and bath linens in his previously bare-bones room. As if all of that wasn't enough, Bruce had started overtly shopping for a vacation home at the seaside, stating that while he himself wouldn't be able to use it often Dick, Tim, and Damian could go whenever they wanted.

It was all too much, and while he understood the emotions driving the billionaire's actions he didn't feel right letting things go on this way. Despite his determination, however, he felt an ache in his chest as he stepped into a secluded dining room and was pulled into one of the tight hugs that he suspected Bruce reserved for him alone. "...Hey," he smiled as they parted.

"Hey, kiddo," a hand squeezed his shoulder before falling away. "Grab a seat. I already ordered for us."

"Of course you did," Dick laughed. "What am I eating?"

"Steak, because you're too damn skinny."

"And you're eating the same thing because...?"

"Because they make a good steak here." An impeccably dressed waiter knocked, entered, and poured two glasses of amber liquid. Leaving the bottle on the table, he departed without having spoken a word.

"...Scotch?"

"You'll be able to palate it, I promise, especially with the beef." Leaning back in his chair, the older man sipped his drink. "...So what's this about?" he asked, his voice turning serious.

"Who says it's about anything?" Dick asked, suddenly hesitant. "Maybe I just wanted to have dinner alone with you."

"I know you too well for that. You asked to go out, but let me choose the location?" Shaking his head, Bruce took another swig. "No. You wanted more neutral territory than the house for some reason, but you also wanted to go somewhere I wouldn't feel out of place, somewhere other than the seedy diners you love for god only knows what reason."

"Side effect of three years of wearing a badge." He laughed weakly, then sighed. "You're, ah...you're not going to like it." The more he thought about it the more convinced he became of that fact, and the less appealing the prospect of food became.

"All right, so I'm not going to like it. It won't be the first time you've told me something I don't like, and yet here we sit. Given that, why are you so nervous?"

"...Am I that obvious tonight?"

"Probably not to anyone else."

"But I'm with you, so I might as well be advertising it with a neon sign."

"Right. I know something' up, so let's get the stuff I'm not going to like over with so that we can move forward and enjoy our meal. It's a shame to eat food as good as what they serve here with a bad taste in your mouth, and...well, I see you little enough these days." Bruce's gaze softened. "I'd rather not waste the time we get. So what's the problem, chum?"

Dick took a deep breath. "We need to talk about my trip," he managed.

"...You want to do that here?" An eyebrow arched, silently questioning the safety of such a topic in a civilian setting.

"Yes." He held his gaze, relaying his confidence that they could hold such a discussion without endangering their masks. Finally the billionaire leaned forward, setting his glass on the table but leaving his fingers curled around it.

"...What about your trip, Dick?"

"I want to go again. No," he held up a hand before anything else could be said. "Let me rephrase that. I _am_ going again. Probably not for another year or so – there are logistics issues, you know – but as soon as I can I'm going again."

"Dick-" his name was spoken in exasperation.

"Let me finish, okay? This isn't easy to spit out. I'm not...I'm not trying to hurt you, Bruce," he swore. "I'm not. I know you want me to stay here. You've made that _incredibly_ obvious, and I'm flattered. I love it, and I love _you_, and Tim, and Dami, and Alfred, but...I love what I was doing out there, too. I loved feeling like I was _really_ making a difference."

"You can make just as much of a difference – more, even – here in Gotham," Bruce ground out.

"I _can't, _though. I mean...yes, I can, and you do make a difference here in Gotham, but I feel like I'm being pulled back. I feel like I should be doing more, and that I should be doing it out there." Seeing the other man's countenance darken, he spoke faster. "There's so much I didn't get to see, so many people I didn't get to meet...I'm not done with that experience yet. Maybe after another trip I will be, but right now I need more. I can do more, I _want _to do more, and I want to do it out there, out in the world. You understand that, don't you? You understand that I'm not...I'm not done exploring yet. Please..." _Please, please understand...yes, we make a difference here, in the night, but it's not the same somehow._

"You're not _done_ yet?" Bruce sputtered. "You went to one of the most dangerous places on the planet, Dick, and you got lucky. Don't _you_ understand _that_? A million terrible things could have happened to you while you were away, while you were-" his eyes darted to the closed door, "-_alone_ out there, unprotected, and I wouldn't have known until it was too late to do anything. Terrorists, bombs, disease...do you know what it's like to sit at home watching the news and wondering if one of the headline stories is going to lead to the worst phone call of your _life_? Every night, Dick. Every goddamn night I did that, for eleven and a half weeks, and I do not _ever_ want to do it again!"

He had expected resistance, but not like this. Unprepared for such a high level of emotion from the usually collected figure opposite him, he couldn't quite control his own tongue. "Oh, yeah? Try doing it for a year," he countered. "At least you had the comfort of knowing that if the phone _didn't_ ring I was probably all right. While you were gone it didn't matter if the phone rang or not, because we all figured the odds were pretty damn good that it wasn't going to be a dead man on the other end. Eleven and a half weeks of hoping I was still alive? Compare that to four times as long of my believing that you _weren't_."

"I'm sorry that happened, Dick, but if you really want some perspective try comparing your year to me spending the rest of my life knowing you were killed doing something that I brought you into!"

His jaw dropped. _Oh, that's rich. That's really fucking rich. Because night work was the __only__ thing you ever 'brought me into,' Bruce. Yeah, right._"Something you brought me into?!" he almost laughed. "Here's a thought; what if I was to get into an accident in my birthday present, or if I wrecked the motorcycle you tried to buy me? How about if a plane crashed into the corner office you keep picturing me in? They've got riptides and sharks along all of the coasts you've been looking at houses on; why not one of those ends? I'd be just as dead in those instances, Bruce, but I'd be that way not because I went to a dangerous part of the world but because I stayed close to home."

The sharp _snap_ of breaking crystal punctuated the end of his sentence. The billionaire straightened abruptly, his eyes pained and his mouth quivering despite being pressed into a thin line. "What...?" Confused, Dick searched for the source of the sound. "Oh..." he breathed a second later as he spied what was left of Bruce's tumbler. As he watched, three drops of blood fell from the still-clenched hand that had destroyed it.

"Don't...don't say things like that. Don't talk about being...like that."

"...I'm sorry." _I didn't mean to hurt you. _ "I'm sorry, but I-"

"I know," Bruce overrode him, his voice trembling. "I hoped I could convince you otherwise, but...I know you want to go back. I've known almost since you got home. Your...the coordinator, I mean...he told me you asked when he needed a crew next."

"...He said he'd keep quiet about that." _Damn, Uncle Clark, I didn't think you'd give me away_.

"He tried, Dick, but I already suspected. I asked him directly, and he knows better than to lie to me. You just kept talking about it," Bruce explained, plucking a few shards from his skin and wrapping his napkin around his palm. "I could tell you were happy to be home, but there was this longing in your voice every time you or someone else brought up your trip. I-"

Another knock at the door silenced him, and a moment later the waiter entered again. He jumped in shock when he spied the broken bar ware, nearly overturning the platter he carried. "Oh my god, you're bleeding! Should I call a doctor?!"

"No," the billionaire, forced to pull his social mask back on with little warning, said a bit roughly. "No, it's fine. Just, ah...just clumsy me. It doesn't look too bad, although I think I'm probably going to need another napkin. We were just about to come get someone."

"I'll get...someone else. Ex...excuse me." With that he bolted, his skin having paled at the sight of the crimson flowers blooming through the fine linen. Fervent whispering could be heard in the hall, and a bare five seconds afterwards the hostess rushed in.

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry, sir..."

It went on like that for twenty minutes. After an ambulance was refused, staff darted to and fro, clearing away soiled fabrics, sanitizing everything, and resetting the table. The manager herself came in and offered to send Bruce's jacket, onto which a single tear of blood had fallen, down the street to a dry cleaners at the restaurant's expense. He declined politely just as a physician who happened to be dining with his wife was brought in from the main room, for which inconvenience the billionaire insisted on paying his tab. When they were finally able to be served their food and then left alone, the duo stared at each other, neither knowing what to say after the extended break in their conversation.

"...You want me to cut that steak for you, lefty?" the younger man made a lame attempt at a jest.

"You're going to have to, I think."

"Here, I'll do this one and then switch you. Did you order them identical?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He bent his head and set to work, feeling Bruce's gaze on him the entire time it took to carve up the first hunk of beef. "So..." he ventured as he swapped their plates. _Say something. Anything. Yell if you want, just...no silent treatment about this, please. We have to keep talking, we __have__ to, but I don't know what to say..._

"You've always been my wanderer, do you know that?"

The question was asked so softly that it took Dick a second to be sure of what he'd heard. "...What?" he raised his head, gulping.

A sad smile curved Bruce's lips. "You've always been my wanderer," he repeated. "When you were a child you would go for those long walks you liked in the woods. If it was rainy and Alfred wouldn't let you outside, you'd circle every hallway in the house. When you grew up you just _had_ to run off to Bludhaven, and even then you were moving apartments every six months like the last one had gone out of style. You've never been good at staying still when you're sick or hurt, and it's a miracle your teachers didn't complain more about you not wanting to be in your seat in class. Even when you're in one place, you're bouncing half the time. You've always been my wanderer," he said for the third time, "and as much as I admire your thirst for new horizons, I've never stopped hoping you'd grow out of it a bit and want to stay...well...close to home."

"...Ah, shit, Bruce," Dick groaned at that lengthy admission and set his knife and fork down. "I can't help it. I'm sorry, I just...I just _have_ to do this, okay? I don't like being separated either," he confessed. "I really don't. When we made up after I moved to Bludhaven, there were days that I didn't want to go three _hours_ without hearing your voice. When you were...gone...I...well, you remember how I was when you came back from that. I barely left you alone for days."

"Weeks," the billionaire corrected. "But I didn't mind."

"I know you didn't. And then my trip...I missed you, Bruce. I missed you a _lot_. I was so homesick towards the end, but...I realized that after I'd seen you and the others I was going to want to go back out. Even knowing that I would miss you in the same way again, I felt like it was what I had to do, what I was _going_ to do. Like...like it was the right thing. I thought my feelings might change once I got home, that I might want to just stay here, but...no dice. It's still there, that urge to get back out there, and I can't help it."

His explanations were coming faster now, things that he hadn't fully fathomed before gelling in his head and pouring out of his mouth. "I love Gotham," he swore, "and I would love to do...more...with the Foundation here in town, but I can't shake this off. I know you don't want me to go on another outing like the last one, but I don't understand _why_." _I've literally traveled the galaxy with the JLA, and while I know you didn't like it you weren't like this. What's different, Bruce?_ He didn't dare ask that out loud, not here, but he trusted that the other man would gather his meaning. "What's changed?"

The billionaire closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Dick...it's just..."

"It's just what?" he pushed, leaning forward again. When there was no response he reached across the table and gripped Bruce's uninjured hand. "I don't want this to be like Bludhaven," he begged. "I want us to talk – not fight, _talk_ – before I go. I want us to understand each other." _Just in case I really __don't__ come back, _he kept to himself.

"I don't want that either."

"Then _tell_ me," he squeezed. "Forget where we are – the door's shut, no one can hear us – and tell me why."

"Because it's too damn _long_, Dick!" burst out finally. "Twelve weeks...three months, almost...it's too long." His face rose, dampness clinging to his eyelashes. "I can deal with weekends, and even a week or two occasionally, but I look back on the time we've had together and I can see all the gaps. Weekends lost to conferences, months lost to fighting and to trips like yours, an entire _year_ lost to...well...lost. Time I can't get back," he shook his head. "Maybe it's just my age starting to talk, but I don't want there to be any more gaps. I...I want to _see_ you building your life, not just hear about it after the fact."

"Bruce, I'll come back," Dick insisted. "You know I'll always come back to Gotham. I'm not _moving_, I just need to go out there again for a little while. Just a little while."

"I know that, and like I said I wouldn't mind if it was just a week or two, but it won't be. It won't be, and we both know it. It will be months, maybe even longer than last time depending on what needs...delivered. It will be another huge gap in our lives, and I hate it already."

There was nothing he could say to that, so he left his hand over the older man's and sat silently. A hint of self-loathing crept into the back of his mind as he reflected on the fact that, despite his best efforts, he _was_ hurting Bruce. Only great emotional pain could have brought forth such a storm of admissions from his mentor, he knew, and his words had caused that agony. "I..."

"No. Wait. I'm not done yet." The billionaire drew a long breath, then turned their hands so that his was on top, in the role of comforter. "I loathe the prospect of being separated for so long again, with you all but incommunicado and in potentially dangerous situations while I sit at home fretting," he stated. "...But there are two things that I could bear even less than that; to see you loafing around Gotham in misery because you felt tied down here, and for you to leave on another trip like the last one thinking that I'm upset with you. I want you to want to stay here, but...that's not how things are. The wanderer you've always been is coming out in you again. So go," he granted softly. "Go out into the world and make it a better place, Dick. Just make sure you come home."

"...You're sure?" Dick breathed, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief.

"I'm...I'm sure. But there is one thing I have to ask of you in return for my blessing."

"What is it?"

"...Wherever you go," a visible lump traveled down the billionaire's throat, "take a knowledge of how unspeakably proud I am with you."

"Bruuuuce..." His nose stuffed itself instantly. "You're going to make me cry in a restaurant...jesus..."

Bruce gave him a shaky smile, tightened his grip for a moment, and then released him. "Call it payback. And don't you _ever_ let me hear you talking about dying again the way you were earlier," he ordered. "...Don't let your nose get stuffy, either. You won't be able to taste the steak."

Dick laughed at the serious tone that had carried through to the final request. "That would be a travesty."

"Take a bite and try telling me it _wouldn't _be a travesty."

"All right, all right, I'm going!" Skewering a piece of meat, he examined it. "It _looks_ good. It _smells_ good..." It went into his mouth and proceeded to perform some strange sort of magic, seeming to melt like butter while at the same time offering the perfect amount of resistance to his chewing. His taste buds went into a frenzy under the assault of pepper and a smoky tang he couldn't quite identify. "Oh my _god_," he moaned. "It tastes like heaven. Why have you never brought me here before?"

"Because sometimes I'm an idiot."

"You are _not,_" Dick shot back before devouring another chunk. "It doesn't even matter that it's not hot any more...what did they do, infuse this thing with LSD?"

"I doubt it," the billionaire chuckled. "Try the Scotch with it."

"The Scotch I haven't touched all night, you mean?" A peaty wave rolled over his tongue, and the steak, impossibly, became even more delectable. "...Whoa."

"Good?"

"Sorcery."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Wait!" Dick exclaimed as Bruce made to take his first bite. "We should toast something before we start. I know I've totally been eating already, but I blame you for that."

The billionaire considered him, then raised his glass. "All right. What are we toasting?"

For a moment, his mind went blank. "Uh..." _Yeah, that's it; make a toast to you-don't-know-what. Great plan._ It came to him then, and he smiled, meeting the other man's eyes. "To the times between the gaps," he proposed. "Because they're far more important than the gaps themselves."

Bruce gave a single, slow nod. "And to the gaps always ending," he added, "so that the times between can start again."

"I'll drink to that," Dick approved, and did. "...Bruce?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you." He meant for more than just the meal, but his throat had become thick and he couldn't seem to speak further.

As usual, though, the billionaire seemed to understand his intent. "...Just doing my job, chum," he answered. "That's never going to stop."

"...Right."

As they ate their talk turned away from the heavy subject that had been their aperitif. By the time dessert came – Bruce had pre-ordered that, too, much to Dick's amusement – they were more jesting than conversing, mutual relief and half a bottle of Scotch lubricating their familiar repartee. As they gained their feet at the end of the meal, however, the younger man dared to broach a somewhat serious question. "Hey, Bruce?"

"Mm?"

"I was wondering...have you been trying to bribe me since I got home? With the car, the job, the motorcycle, all of that stuff? I won't be mad if the answer's yes, I just want to know for sure."

"...Maybe partially, yes."

"Uh...so which one of those words is the truth?"

The billionaire shot him a look. "...Yes."

"Damn." He stared at his shoes for a minute. "So...does that mean we're _not_ getting a beach house?"

A full, delighted laugh rang out. "You want me to keep bribing you even after we've reached an agreement, is that what you're implying?""

"No. It's just...a beach house would be really awesome, but I didn't want you to buy it as a bribe. If you're going to buy one, I'd rather you bought it because you want to spend time there with us."

"Between the gaps?"

"Between my gaps, and Tim's gaps, and Dami's, too. They won't always sync up, but…my gaps shouldn't be the only ones that matter."

"Mm…well, if you'll use it, and they'll use it, then maybe we'll all take a little trip down to the shore next weekend. There are a couple of places I'd like to take a closer look at."

"…You totally have the appointments set up already, don't you?" He crossed his arms.

"Maybe."

"Yes, you mean?"

"…Yes."

Dick sighed. "You're a dork, Bruce, but I love you anyway."

"Good." Rounding the end of the table, the billionaire clapped him on the shoulder. "…Come on. Alfred's waiting to take us home, and I'm sure his first sight of my hand will cause at least a five minute delay."

"What about the car?!"

"Attached to that particular bribe already, are you?" Bruce shook him teasingly. "I'm kidding. I really did buy that as your birthday present, and _only_ as your birthday present. It was ordered long before you left on your trip. And it will be safe in the valet garage until we can come pick it up tomorrow. Okay?"

"So long as you'll be the one to drive me into town in the morning, then okay."

"How about we have Alfred drive us in, and then we ride back together?"

"…That sounds good, dad," Dick breathed, smiling when a spark of joy flashed in Bruce's eyes at that title. "That sounds really, really good."


	3. Into the Glow

Dick walked down the stairs slowly, taking the view in from each riser. This was the last time he would descend into the cavernous marble entryway of Wayne Manor for many months, and even though he was likely to see similar spaces during the mission he would be departing on directly after dinner he knew that none of them would hold such warm memories. He wanted to remember every detail for when the hours grew tiresome and lonely.

His gaze lingered on the tasteful art in the hall leading back to the dining room for the same reason. So busy was he in taking in the sights of the house he'd grown up in that he didn't register the smell of food until he'd reached his destination. There he halted on the threshold, both his eyes and his nose making incredible reports. "...Whoa," he breathed. "What the...?"

"Surprise!" the five people gathered around stacks of pizza boxes greeted him.

"What...what is this?" Grinning like a fool, he watched as a red-headed blur zipped around the table. It crashed into him, and he laughed from inside the resultant embrace. "Hey, Wals. What's up?"

"Your going away party, is what," the speedster replied as they broke apart. "I wasn't going to miss this for anything."

"Especially once I mentioned the mountains of pizza Alfred ordered," Tim smirked from his seat.

"_...Alfred_ knows about this?" Dick glanced around, but saw no sign of the butler. "Where is he, ritually cleansing himself of the sin of fast-food delivery?"

"Oh, come now, young sir," the man in question defended himself as he slipped past with a pitcher of dark liquid. "I'm not so horribly strict as you make me sound, am I?"

Bruce, Dick, and Tim exchanged glances. "No, Alfred," they chimed simultaneously.

"...Master Damian?" Alfred queried when the youngest remained silent. "Does your opinion differ?"

The boy snorted. "They're full of shit."

"Daaaami," Dick groaned.

"Be that as it may," Bruce rumbled as his mouth tried to twitch upwards, "watch your language or you'll be having salad for dinner."

"Yeah," Tim teased, "I'll bet Alfred's got _tons_ of spinach he could pawn off on you."

Damian glared across the table. "...Shut up, Drake."

"Maybe if you'd quit bei-"

"Could we _not _murder each other right before I leave?" Dick broke in. "Please? It's going to be kind of tough to meet my deadline if I have to answer a bunch of police questions about who stabbed who with which fork first." The room went quiet. "...Thanks. Hi, Uncle Clark," he finally managed to finish saying his hellos.

"Hi, Dick," the Kryptonian, who had watched the exchanges thus far with an amused expression, replied. "Ready for a vacation from this crew?"

"Is that what you're sending me on?" Dick riposted. "Vacation?"

"The way you've been begging for it for the last year, you seem to think it's going to be one," Bruce muttered.

"Well, it's no beach house," Clark smiled, "but I think you'll find plenty of things to keep yourself amused with."

"Excellent." He shot a look at Wally, who was still standing beside him but seemed to be on the edge of drooling. "Ready to eat, bro?" he nudged him.

"What a stupid question," Damian commented.

"It was rhetorical. C'mon, Wals, before your eyes fall out of your head." They claimed their seats, and a moment later the odd sound of pizza being plunked down onto fine china filled the air. No one spoke until Alfred began to fill glasses from the pitcher he'd brought in. "Is that _soda_?!" Dick gaped, drawing the attention of the entire little assembly.

The butler drew himself up under the shocked looks that followed his charge's question. "Master Tim _insisted_ that it was essential," he explained. "Seeing as how this is a special occasion, I made an exception to the usual rule."

"Excellent!" the man of the hour grinned.

"I figured you wouldn't say no to your last dinner being painfully American," Tim commented. "I thought about doing beer instead, but sending you off on a mission half-drunk didn't seem like the world's greatest idea."

"Probably not," Clark agreed.

"Nah," Dick shook his head, delighted. "This is perfect, Timmy. Pizza, soda, and the best people I know; what more could a guy ask for? I just hope Alfred doesn't stay up all night fretting about the ridiculous amount of calories we're about to ingest. Should I apologize for your impending sleeplessness now or later, Alfred?" he jested.

The butler shot him an indulgent look. "Don't worry about me, young sir. Just eat. You came back malnourished enough from your last long sojourn that I'm rather pleased that you'll be stuffing yourself before you go on the next."

"Well, eating preserved carrots for weeks on end will do that to you."

"And you want to go back to that _why_, exactly?" Bruce pressed a bit sarcastically.

Dick met his surrogate father's eyes and read the pain in them. "There are other compensations," he shrugged. He knew that Bruce both did and did not understand his decision, but they'd already talked about it so many times that there was little chance of another in-depth explanation doing any good. "Besides, I'll be in the city this time. There will be a _lot _more food options."

"Relax, Bruce," Clark tried to help. "I didn't set him up with a penniless alias. He'll be fine."

The billionaire glowered. "You can guarantee that, can you?"

It was a loaded question, and everyone in the room knew it. "...No. You know that."

"Think of it this way," Dick interjected as Bruce's expression inched towards a glare. "If I eat enough street food, I might even _gain_ weight."

"Now there's a thought," Alfred nodded his approval as he finished filling the last glass.

"That doesn't override the point that-"

A belch interrupted the beginning of Bruce's tirade. Wally's face and ears reddened as everyone silently pinpointed him as the source of the disturbance. "Uh...sorry," he stammered. "Sorry, Alfred. I, uh...guess I ate that first pie too fast."

The butler gave a resigned sigh. "I suppose you couldn't have helped it, Mister West."

"At least you had the good sense to be embarrassed," Dick chuckled. "That counts for a lot in Alfred's book. Anyway," he turned back to Bruce, "we should probably dig in before Wally clears the table for us, huh?"

There was a moment of terse quiet before the billionaire replied. "...You're right," he allowed finally. "Let's eat."

What came next was pure bliss. Dick had eaten pizza that ranged across the spectrum, from the greasiest, most bowel-upsetting slices that Bludhaven's underbelly could provide to supposed 'gourmet' offerings in the heart of Gotham's financial district. With all of that experience, he could not recall ever having found such a perfect mixture of flavor and texture before. Glancing around, he realized that it wasn't just the firm-but-yielding crust, the rich sauces, and the well-proportioned cheeses with their varied toppings that set this pizza party above all others. While those aspects contributed to the overall atmosphere, the key factor in his happiness as he picked up his fourth slice was the group of people who were partaking with him.

Alfred had slipped back into the kitchen in his usual manner, but bliss was easy to read on the faces of the others as he glanced down the table. Not even the faint darkness lingering in both Bruce and Damian's miens was enough to override the savory weight of the food passing through their mouths, and as a result they looked pleasantly disturbed. He made a note to talk to both of them before he left, then grinned, kicked Wally to tease him for being three pizzas ahead of everyone, and took a huge bite.

The wordless munching trailed off as, one after another, they reached a point of satiation. "...Please tell me I don't have to run anywhere tonight, Uncle Clark," Dick groaned when he was finished.

"That's not the plan, no," the Kryptonian laughed.

"I don't even think _I _can run after all of that," Wally muttered, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. "Oh, man..."

"It was totally awesome, right?"

"Wicked."

Damian chuffed derisively. "Your slang is so...dated. It's bad enough when you're apart, but it gets even more ridiculous when you're together."

"What do you _want _them to say?" Tim asked. "'That was totes ill?' 'Bodacious pie, bro?'" There was no answer. "C'mon, you can't just berate their lingo and then not offer an alternative."

"...It was an observation, Drake, not a call to action."

"I dunno," Dick broke in with a smirk. "'Totes bodacious' sounds kind of sweet. What do you think, Wals?"

The redhead straightened and sent him a complicit wink. "'Totes bodacious.' That's a pretty ill catchphrase, bro. I'm jiggy with it."

"Do you see what you've done now, Drake, you idiot?! You've made it _worse_!" the child decried.

"Hey, _you_ started it by making fun of them, so how is this _my_ fault?"

"Knock it off, you two," Bruce frowned his youngest sons down.

"At least let me get out of the blast zone before you launch World War III," Dick requested. "Not that I wouldn't love to stay and referee, but I've got other things to do."

"Things that can't be put off too much longer, I'm afraid," Clark announced. "...Sorry, pal, but we need to go soon."

For all that he was excited, the arrival of his final minutes at home stirred up a trace of regret. "...Oh. Right. Okay. Ah...do you want to just meet me downstairs?" He needed a minute alone with both Bruce and Damian, but neither of them would appreciate it if he blurted as much out.

"Sure. Wally, Tim? Why don't you come with me, and I'll go ahead and brief you for your monitoring shifts tonight."

"Are we on together?" Wally asked quizzically.

"Yeah. Didn't you see the schedule?" Tim replied.

"I did, but I must have misread it. That's cool, though. I can think of much worse ways to spend an evening than hanging out with my bro's little bro."

Tim colored slightly. "...Cool."

"Try not to talk his ear off, Wals, would you?" Dick ribbed. "I'd like you both intact and still on speaking terms when I get back. Great dinner parties like this are kind of hard to throw when a third of the attendees are fighting. And speaking of great dinner parties, thanks for the awesome going away shindig, Timmy," he beamed. "It was fantastic."

"_Shindig_?" Damian scoffed. "You have got to be shitting me..."

"Good," Tim smiled back, ignoring the youngest of the group as he stood. "I'm glad. See you downstairs?"

"Downstairs. You bet."

The trio departed. Damian slipped away on their heels, mumbling something about the bathroom. Silence drew out between the two remaining men until Dick rose from his chair and moved around the table. Sitting next to the brooding billionaire, he hitched himself close and leaned against him. "...I'm going to miss you the most, you know," he whispered. "Don't tell anyone that, but...it's the truth. Okay?"

Bruce heaved a long sigh and wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders. "Okay," he murmured. "But there's a condition."

"What's that?"

"You have to come back to me."

Dick closed his eyes and snuggled into the secure warmth that he would be without for who knew how long, trying to get his fill. "You know I'll do my best," he promised.

"I know, chum. I know. But that doesn't make it any easier."

"...I know. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry, but you have to go anyway."

"I...I do. We talked about this..."

"We did," Bruce nodded against his hair. "I guess I've just spent the last thirteen months hoping that you'd change your mind, or that it would wear off, or...oh, hell, what am I talking about? I knew better all along. Ignore me."

"No. It's important. It's how you feel."

"...I want you to go do what you have to do, Dick. How that makes me, or Tim, or Damian, or even Alfred feel isn't the point. Don't you dare worry about us while you're gone," he instructed, his grip tightening. "I know you will, but don't. You just watch your back and_ come home_. All right?"

Dick swallowed hard. "Y-yeah," he agreed with a sniffle. "...I love you, Bruce. I want you to know that."

"I know, kiddo. I...I know." There was a pause, and then a final squeeze. "I'm so proud of you," five heavy words hung between them. "...Go save the world, son."

The heat of Bruce's arm lifted, and a second later Dick pulled away and stood. He headed for the hall, then stopped in the doorway and turned back. "It will end, you know," he commented, thinking of the conversation they had shared just over a year earlier.

"What will?" the billionaire asked, his voice crackling.

"The gap." He smiled tearily. "This one will end just like the other ones did. I believe that."

"...I do, too, chum."

"Good." A beat went by as his feet acted like they'd been glued to the rug. They released after a brief internal battle, and he knew that it was time to go. "I'll see you later, dad. Love you."

He rounded the corner almost before the last syllable left his mouth, certain that staying for another second would make him change his mind about going at all. His cheeks were still damp when he stepped into the kitchen to bid farewell to Alfred.

The butler turned away from the sink immediately. "Well, Master Dick," he hummed, "you're on your way, I take it?"

"Yeah. On…on my way."

"Hmm…" Closing the gap between them, the older man scrutinized him from head to toe. "Eat as best you can while you're gone," he commanded. "I know you love the food where you're going, but remember how quickly you shed pounds in extreme heat. You'll need to add at least several hundred calories a day to maintain your current weight through the summer months."

"Okay."

"And stay hydrated."

"I will."

"And _be careful_." Dick felt fingers brush his cheek momentarily, the rare touch relaying Alfred's concern. "Heaven only knows what we'd do with ourselves were you not to return."

"I'll be back before you know it," he promised, his nose threatening to stuff itself.

"I'll hold you to that, young sir." The butler's hand hitched itself halfway up as if to make contact once more, then fell back. "Go on now," he bade, "before the stiffness of my upper lip is put in any further jeopardy."

"Sure, Alfred." He backed away, tried to smile, and failed. "Love you. See you soon."

"…Blessed, _cursed _child," a watery oath followed him into the hall. It wasn't difficult to imagine that his last five words had pushed the Englishman into quivery-lip territory, but he tried not to think about it as he made his way towards the cave. There was still Damian to deal with, and he didn't want to go into that encounter any more emotionally compromised than he already was. The question was, he frowned, where had the boy gone after he'd left the dining room?

He found his answer as soon as he entered the foyer. The child was hunched over on the bottom step, his eyes fixed on his feet and a snarl twisting his features. "…Hey, little D," Dick murmured as he sat down beside him.

"I thought you were _leaving_," he received a terse reply.

"Aww, Dami…you know, I can always tell when you're sad about something."

"Who gives a shit?"

"You don't want to know what your tell is?" He waited, positive that the secretive child would give in to that teaser.

"Well you obviously want to tell me, so what is it?"

"Nice try."

A deep sigh sounded. "…Fine. What's my tell?"

"You _really_ want to know?"

"_Yes_! Jesus Christ, Grayson, just tell me!"

"Okay, okay. I can always tell when you're sad," he explained, "because you get mean."

"...I'm always mean."

"Says who?"

"Drake."

"…Well, you _are_ always mean to him. But you're not usually mean to me. So what's up?" he queried gently. "Talk to me, huh?"

There was no answer for a long moment. "_You're_ the one being mean now."

He started, taken aback. "What?! I'm…" He shook his head. "How am I being mean?"

"It doesn't matter. Whatever." Damian made to rise, but Dick tugged him back down. "Let me go, Grayson. I thought you had other things to do?"

"Daaaami…" Pulling the boy close, he began to rock back and forth. "Okay. I get it," he soothed. "You're mad at me for going on this mission, right?"

"Don't be stupid."

"That's how I'm being mean, is because I'm leaving for a while. Isn't it?"

"…Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"…Yes."

"All right. Okay." He closed his eyes. "Are you _really_ mad at me for that, or are you just sad that I'm going away?"

"I don't know. Isn't…" Damian pushed him away until he could stare at him. "Isn't this place good enough for you anymore?"

Dick's jaw dropped. "Of course it is," he managed after a stunned second. "Of _course_ it is. I love it here, and I love _you_, and Bruce, and Alfred, and Timmy, but…I really want to do this mission. It's important to me, and it could save a lot of innocent lives. But when it's over I'll come home again, I promise."

"Yeah, until the _next_ mission you want to do."

He couldn't deny that that was a possibility. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know how I'll feel about it then. But do you know what's _not_ going to change, no matter what?"

"…What?" was asked grudgingly.

"How much I love you guys, and our lives here. That will _never, ever_ change, Dami, no matter how many missions I go on."

"…You're going to miss the whole summer," the boy accused.

"Probably, yeah. But you'll have fun without me, out on patrol, and at the beach house, and-"

"No I won't," came a stubborn refusal.

Dick hugged him again, overwhelmed. "You can have fun with people other than me, little brother," he whispered. "I don't mind, and it won't take away from the fun we have together. Give Tim a try; he's more fun than you give him credit for, and he'll forgive you for the way you've treated him in the past if you show him you want to make amends."

"Drake is a pedant. He's…"

"Dami, c'mon now-"

"He's not _you,_ damn it!" Damian yanked away once more, swiping a few fat tears from his face. "…He's not you, and no matter how hard he tries he never will be."

"…No. He's not me. But he's still worth knowing. So are lots of other people."

"I don't care about…other people."

"You might if you got to know them."

"I don't want to."

"…Okay," Dick exhaled. "This isn't getting us anywhere, so here's what we're going to do. I'm going to go on my mission, and I'm going to think about how much I miss you at _least_ once every hour. Probably more," he smiled, "but at least that much. You," he brushed a hand over the boy's hair, "are going to stay here, be good for Alfred and Bruce, be an excellent Robin – you already _are _that, so it won't be hard – and maybe, just maybe, give people who aren't me a chance to get to know the real you. Then when I get back, no matter what month it is, you and I will take a special trip somewhere together. Anywhere you want," he promised. "No one else, no masks, just you and me hanging out and having fun. Sound like a plan?"

"And what if you don't come back?"

The sentence cracked in the middle, and Dick gulped down a lump of sorrow. "…Then I'll be with you every day for the rest of your life, and I'll still love you just as much as I do right now."

He expected a snort of disbelief at the introduction of metaphysics into the conversation, but none came. Neither of them said anything else for the space of several heartbeats. Then:

"It wasn't this hard the last time you left."

"No? Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"Sure it does. You know…Bruce said it's harder for him this time, too." If there was anyone he thought he could get away with referring to as having similar emotions to Damian, it was their mentor.

"...He did?"

"Mm-hmm. He said it's because last time felt so long."

"It _was_ long. And this time's going to be longer."

"…Yeah. But it has to be. It's too dangerous if we go any faster."

"I know. I just wish…" The boy trailed off. "…Did he cry? Father?"

"Yes." He hadn't actually seen tears in the dining room, but it was a safe bet. "So did I. And I'm crying now, too," he pointed out with a faint laugh.

"…Yeah. You are." Damian looked down at his knees. "You know something, Grayson?"

"What?"

"Between Bruce, and probably Alfred, and…me...all crying, a lot of people would have changed their mind about going." He hesitated. "…I'm glad you aren't that weak."

"…Me, too, Dami." Dick felt his lower lip tremble, and sank his teeth into it to make it stop. "I'm just glad no one begged me to stay on their hands and kness or anything," he added.

"Yeah, well…I guess if you're strong enough to go, then you're strong enough to come back. You'd sure as hell better be, at least. I have no interest in going where you're going, so do _not_ give me cause for a revenge killing spree."

"We don't kill. You know that. You've been doing so well; don't say things like that."

"No. We don't kill. But for you?" He grinned dangerously. "For you, I think even Batman would break that particular rule."

Dick shuddered. "Well, we're not going to be finding that out any time soon."

"Good." He hesitated. "You should go now. You're going to be late, and Drake hasn't had a chance to sob all over you yet."

"Yeah…okay, little brother." He hugged him again. "I love you."

"…I'll attempt to hold up my end of the deal you proposed."

"Thanks, Dami. It'll be worth it." Dick stood. "See you later, huh?"

"Yes. You will."

He didn't look around as he passed into the hallway, but he could feel the child's gaze on his back the entire way. Closing his eyes against fresh tears – Damian and Bruce were both right, it _was_ harder this time – he turned the clock's hands and started down the steps. The others were waiting for him at the bottom, he knew, and time was short for the rest of his goodbyes, so he hustled. To his surprise, though, there was only one person present when he emerged. "...Tim?"

"They said they'd meet you at the Watchtower," the younger man said in a thick voice. When he turned, Dick could see the faint gleam that salty moisture had left beneath his eyes. "I guess they wanted to give us a minute alone."

"...Yeah...Timmy-"

"Just don't die out there, okay?" he was cut off.

"That's the plan, little brother."

"...Okay." Tim stared at him for a minute. "I don't know why this is so hard, Dick. Why _this_ mission, out of all the ones any of us have ever gone on? It...it feels like a bad sign that I'm so...you know...?"

"Don't think of it like that. It's...this will be the longest we've been apart other than...well...you know."

"Yeah."

"That's all it is. It's okay." He pulled him into an embrace. "I'm upset, too. But I'm still going. So...it'll be okay, all right?"

"...Okay."

"You don't believe me. I know that tone."

"I don't. But this is _stupid_, I don't even believe in superstitious crap!"

"I know. And that's good, because I'll be fine. There's no point in stressing out about it." The clinging hands on his back didn't loosen. "Do I need to take you on a special bro-cation when I get back, too?" he joked, trying not to choke up.

"…What?"

"Oh…I promised Dami we'd take a trip when I got back. I was trying to make him feel better. Do I need to do that with you, too?"

Tim released him with a sniffle. "No," he shook his head. "I mean, that would be fun, don't get me wrong, but…I'm okay. I'm okay now."

"You're sure?"

"No, but...you have to go. I don't want to make you late, especially if being late is dangerous."

Dick watched him for a long second. "Hey, Tim? Do me a favor while I'm gone?"

"Yeah, sure. What is it?"

He jerked a thumb towards the staircase. "Take care of them. Especially Dami. I know he gets on your nerves, but that's just his way of saying that he needs love."

"That's a fucked up way to ask for positive attention."

"Yeah, but…that's how he works. Please?" he pleaded. "I don't mean you've got to tuck him in at night or anything, just…ask him how he's doing once in a while? I know he'll probably curse you out for it, but maybe one of these days he'll actually give you an answer between all the expletives."

"I think you're dreaming, but…I'll give it a try," Tim shrugged. "Worst case scenario he kills me in my sleep, and he threatens to do that on a weekly basis already, so…"

"He _does_?!"

"Don't worry about it. He knows you'd never forgive him, so he'll never do it."

"…I don't think he _actually_ wants to kill you. He's just…"

"Crying for attention?"

"Yeah."

"That's still a fucked up method."

"I know, but…I love the little jerk," Dick sighed. "And I love you too. I know you know that, but still. I do."

They hugged once more before Tim backed away. "Be careful, okay?" he requested.

"I will be. You, too."

"Okay. Hey, Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"…I love you, too."

Dick grinned. "Thanks for saying the words, Timmy. I appreciate that."

"Yeah, I know. Taciturn bastards, all three of them."

"Heh. Yes, yes they are. But keep them in one piece for me anyway, will you?"

"I'll do my best. Here," he moved to snag a mask off of the counter behind him. "Don't forget this. Clark said you're dressing at the Watchtower, so…yeah. Mask."

"Aww, Timmy," Dick accepted it and the small bottle of spirit gum that followed. "…You've always got my back."

"Just bring your back – and everything else – back in one piece."

"Will do." He walked away then, the excitement of the chase he was about to embark on welling up over the pain of being separated from those he loved. "…Time to go," he muttered to himself, pressing his disguise into place just outside of the Zeta tube. Lifting his head, he punched in his destination code and took a long look around the cave, soaking in his last few seconds at home. When his eyes fell on his brother for a final time, he tossed him a little salute. "See you soon," he called, and stepped into the glow.

* * *

**Author's Note: There will be a short epilogue tomorrow. Happy reading!**


	4. Epilogue - Sugar and Spice

Dick slid around the front door quietly, hoping to surprise the first person he encountered. Once the latch had re-seated itself with a tiny _click_, he turned around, debating which hallway to go down first. "...Oops," he grinned a second later. "I guess my cover's blown, huh?"

Bruce gaped at him from midway down the staircase. He'd frozen with one hand hovering over the banister when the portal had opened, and only now did he let his palm connect with the railing. "You're home," he whispered, disbelief writ large on his face. "Dick..."

They met at the bottom of the stairs in an embrace that left neither with enough air for speech. Dick could feel his collar dampening under Bruce's silent tears, but he supposed it was only fair given the way he was soaking the man's shoulder. Strong fingers dug into his back until he was certain he was going to have bruises, but he wouldn't have complained even if he could have. He had waited seven months for this moment, and he saw no reason to end it prematurely.

"Here," the older man breathed eventually. "Let me see you…" Dick was pushed to arm's length and scrutinized from top to bottom. "…Alfred's going to have a fit. How much weight have you lost?"

"It's only ten pounds," he shrugged. It was closer to fifteen than ten, if he wanted to be honest, but he didn't care to admit to it just then. "Not much for seven months."

"Mm. You're not planning on keeping this," fingers scrubbed across the growth on his cheeks, "are you?"

"No," he shook his head. "It's just leftover disguise. I trimmed the rest of it off when I changed identities in Chicago. Wait until you see the pictures; I didn't know I was capable of growing that much facial hair."

"…You changed identities in Chicago?"

"Yeah. It was safest for me to come back as a civilian. I flew out under my mission alias, checked into a hotel in Chicago, changed my appearance, and then checked into another room under a different name. J'onn came down long enough this morning to check out as my old alias, I checked out as my _new_ alias, and then I hopped a flight to Gotham." It had been miserable, sitting in his hotel room and watching the clock for fourteen hours until he could head for the airport. All he'd wanted was to get home, and not even the necessity of security had been enough to make the process any less aggravating.

"How did you get here after you landed?"

"I changed into myself after I got off the plane. J'onn gave me a bag with these clothes and my real IDs when we met up in Chicago. I dropped my name at the terminal cab stand, and away we went." Bruce, he noted to himself, hadn't stopped touching him since their hug. One hand had lingered on his neck while he explained his travel arrangements, and it now moved to his elbow, guiding him downward.

"Sit. You've got to be tired after being three different people in the space of a day."

He obeyed, and was pleased when the other man took a position beside him. "I guess I could use some rest. I've been so busy and so excited to get back that I haven't done much of that lately. But I'll sleep later," he insisted before Bruce could force him off to bed. "Right now I want to catch up. Where are the others? Is everyone okay?" He couldn't imagine Superman keeping the news of any truly awful occurrences from him despite his undercover status, but the house seemed too quiet.

"Everyone's fine. An old friend of Alfred's came to the States to visit family, so Alfred flew down to Virginia to see him. Tim's on duty at the Watchtower – if you'd come through that way, you might have seen him – and Damian…" The billionaire shook his head. "You're not going to believe me when I tell you where Damian is. _I _can barely believe it, and I was a part of it."

Dick felt a finger of dread sink into his stomach. "Why, what's going on? Did something happen? Where is he?"

"He's at the Mountain."

"…Wait, Mount _Justice_? That Mountain?"

"Yes. He asked if I would see about him having another chance with the team, and…well, he's no one's favorite, but he's managed to maintain a civil working relationship with the other kids for almost three months now."

"…He kept the deal," Dick murmured happily. "Oh, Dami…I knew you could do it..."

"What deal?" Bruce arched an eyebrow.

"I…before I left I asked him to try and give some other people a chance. You know, to get to know them before he just dismisses them. He said he'd try, and I knew he meant it, but…I never thought he'd go _that_ far. Hell, I'd have been delighted if he'd just halved the amount of fighting he does with Tim!"

"Those two are never going to be what I'd call friendly, but they _do_ seem to bicker less than they used to."

"Wow…" He shook his head, flabbergasted. "It sounds like he earned that vacation I promised him. Was he good otherwise while I was gone?"

"He was Damian."

"…What'd he do?"

"Nothing he hasn't already been sufficiently punished for. Don't worry about it right now."

He wanted to press, but he knew there would be plenty of time later. "Okay. So the others are good, but what about you? Any fun on the corporate front? Maybe a new baddie I should be aware of?"

Bruce shook his head. "…No. Nothing unusual. Just…"

"Just what?"

"…Just missing you, chum. That's all."

He leaned over, smiling when the billionaire's arm wrapped around his shoulders. "I missed you, too," he sighed. "So much. I swear, not a day went by when I didn't think 'what would Bruce do?' or 'what would Bruce say to that?'"

"Mm…Dick, I need to ask you something."

Dick glanced up at the odd tone of uncertainty in the older man's voice. "What is it?"

"When are you leaving again? I know you just got home, but…I need to know."

"Well…" He hesitated. "Maybe never. If I do go, it definitely won't be for as long."

"…Do you mean that?" A tremulous note of hope hung from the question. "You…you think you've had enough of the long hauls? God knows you've done your time with them."

"This one was _really_ long. I know it was important work, and I met a lot of really great, beautiful people. _G__ood_ people. People I'd like to work with again someday. But…it was too long. I don't even think I'd want to go for three months at a stretch again. I still love it over there, but…I'm ready to be home for a while." He paused, thinking. He'd planned on taking special vacations with Tim and Damian, so why shouldn't he take one with Bruce, too? The odds of convincing him to go on a civilian get-away were slim, but if there was mask work involved… "Maybe next time Uncle Clark can cook up something for you and I to do together," he proposed. "Nothing long, but…something. It's pretty there; you'd like it."

"I'd like just about anywhere that you were with me, chum. But that sounds like a good idea."

Relief was audible in Bruce's words, and Dick felt a wave of guilt wash over him. "…I'm sorry," he murmured.

"No. Don't be. It was important to you, and like you said it was important work." A deep breath was drawn. "I wish we hadn't been apart those months, but it's done now. It's over."

"Yeah. It is."

"Good." A beat passed. "They mentioned a lot of names on the news while you were gone, people who had been caught. Clark said a lot of them were because of you."

"Well…there were a bunch of different people working on getting those guys."

"Maybe so, but according to him you improved the operation's efficiency threefold."

His cheeks grew hot. He had certainly done some major reorganizing upon his arrival, and the changes had mostly worked out well, but the number seemed inflated. "I find that hard to believe."

"I don't."

"You're biased."

Bruce laughed. "I am. But if Clark says it's true, then it's probably true."

"On anything other topic, yes. But he's biased when it comes to me, too."

"You're being too modest, Dick. I guess one of us has to be, though."

"...What do you mean? Batman might be a bit prideful," he puzzled, "but it's deserved pride. I certainly wouldn't call you egotistical."

"Ah...suffice it to say that Tim accused me of strutting around the Watchtower every time news of another capture came through."

"Oh." His blush deepened. "I, uh…I wish I'd been there to see that. But Tim's probably got it recorded. I'll just ask him." As he'd expected it would, the comment made the figure beside him stiffen. "And no, I won't promise to destroy it after I watch it."

"Damn…I forgot how annoying it is when two of you conspire against me…"

"It's our way of keeping you on your toes. Besides, we know you love it."

"That's highly debatable."

"Puh-_lease_. I know better." A loud rumble emanated from his midsection without warning, almost drowning out the last syllable. "…Apparently I'm hungry," he remarked.

"When did you eat last?!" Bruce asked in a parental half-lecture.

"Whoa! Channel Alfred much?"

"...Did I sound like him just now?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Mm. Well, the question stands in any case."

"I ate this morning. The hotel had a continental breakfast."

"Which means you had half a banana and some coffee and called it good," the billionaire sighed.

"I had a couple pieces of toast, too. Give me _some_ credit."

"You have plenty of credit. Enough for me to buy you dinner, at least." After another tight squeeze, his arm withdrew. "What do you feel like?"

"Hmm…" There had been some international dining options while he was abroad, and he had partaken of them a few times, but the entire world was available in Gotham. A hundred favored delicacies that he hadn't been able to procure for months – escargot, chorizo, collard greens, sea urchin – presented themselves, and were summarily dismissed. There would be time for all of them, but tonight he just wanted to eat and talk with his father in the privacy of home. "Let's get Szechuan delivery," he blurted. "That sounds amazing."

"You want to eat here? We can go out if you want."

"Nah. I don't want to deal with the press, and it won't be nearly as embarrassing to fall asleep in my food here as it would be in a restaurant. Makes it a heck of a lot easier for me to tell you everything I did while I was gone, too," he gave a knowing grin.

Bruce chuckled at the calling out. "Anything you want, chum."

"Great! So I can finally have that pet elephant?"

"It's like I've told you every other time you've asked; I'll pay for it if _you_ break the news to Alfred."

"Yeeeaah, I don't really want to melt under the apocalyptic glare that would earn me. Good to know the offer still stands, though." They smirked at one another. "Let's order, huh? I'm starving."

"Well, c'mon, then," Bruce said, standing. Dick joined him, and a moment later the older man's hand gripped his shoulder. "We'll call from the study, and I'll pour us a drink while we wait. If you're going to tell me all about your trip, you might as well do it over a glass of good Scotch."

"Does that mean you're going to carry me upstairs when I fall asleep in my chair half-drunk and full of Chinese food?"

The billionaire simply smiled. "If it comes to that, chum," he answered softly, "I think you already know that you'll wake up in bed."

Dick _did_ know that, the same as he knew that he would stir halfway to his room and then cling to his secret consciousness until the blankets had been smoothed over him and Bruce had whispered a final 'good night'. It was the same routine they'd enacted a thousand times before, and as odd as it might have seemed to some given their ages it was still precious to them. "Let's put that theory to the test, shall we?"

"Let's. You owe me a lot of stories."

"Don't worry," he assured, already trying to decide which tale to start with. "I've got enough to clear my tab and then some."

"Maybe I should limit you to one at a time."

"You trying to make me into your personal Scheherazade? Keep me here for a thousand and one nights?" Dick nudged him.

"…Maybe."

"It won't be necessary. I promise."

"Good." The fingers at the top of his arm tightened. "I'm looking forward to holding you to that."

"_Classic_ Bruce." God, how he'd missed this man. "…Let's go, huh?"

"Lead the way, son. I'm right behind you."


End file.
